


Orthodoxy

by ghosty



Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: Eating Disorders, F/F, Female Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, it's gay if you squint :3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-24 16:13:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16643513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghosty/pseuds/ghosty
Summary: The circumstances are inconsequential. But Noora sits with Vilde at the booth, phones face down on the table, and a practiced smile on Noora’s face like Mother Teresa's while Vilde pretends to lay out her silverware in a way she likes.





	Orthodoxy

The circumstances are inconsequential. But Noora sits with Vilde at the booth, phones face down on the table, and a practiced smile on Noora’s face like Mother Teresa's while Vilde pretends to lay out her silverware in a way she likes.

The cafeteria is bustling at a comfortable volume — not desolate and too quiet, not so busy that you can’t hear yourself think, and Noora would like to hear herself think right now so she can handle this situation to the best of her ability. And she knows, deep down, that she’s not Vilde’s mom, not her therapist, not her girlfriend — she is just her friend, but in this day and age she believes that can count for a lot, if not more, as a woman, and her putting forth the effort to make that reality is enough for her.

Nevertheless. Several minutes later, Noora has a burger and fries, and Vilde has an artful display of greens and cup of water, and Noora counts that this is the eighth salad this week.

They tuck into their food, and it’s also the eighth time this week Vilde has carefully maneuvered her meal; taken small bites of only the the most verdant and crunchy vegetables in an attestation to their high water, low-calorie content.

Noora just keeps smiling gently when her own teeth sink into lettuce, meat, condiments, rich and delicious, and Vilde’s eyes flicker up for half a second too long as Noora chews and chews.

Any aimless chatter and conversation dies shortly after as she waits to say something. Whatever she wants to say. She has to thread this needle with care.

“It’s amazing that you can do so many salads without any kind of dressing,” Noora comments lightly, popping a fry in her mouth.

Vilde is insipid as always. Instantly, on reflex, her own pretty pink lips curve up in a way that doesn’t reach the dull shine of her desperately wanting eyes, tamping down and shrouding anything she wouldn’t like the world to see. Them. Other. Funny how that works; Noora is unequivocally aware that Vilde is working hard to keep her out, but the walls she’s putting up are the kind that Noora is terribly familiar with — so much so that they are all but opaque.

“Dressing just... isn’t nutritious, you know?” Vilde settles on, amicably. The tinge of desperation is still there, the panic that comes from being _inside_ of those walls and watching someone scale them, time after time, hoping you can placate them, or perhaps convince them that _these_ are not walls worth climbing, that Vilde’s garden is not one work digging into, that—

“Really?” Noora’s mouth is still pleasantly set, head cocked, and her eyes are determined and bright. She eats another fry. “But dressings are normally natural. Ranch is dairy, which just comes from milk. Olive oil is self-explanatory. What’s wrong with those?”

Vilde makes some sort of non-committal response and twirls her fork against a leaf.

“Your metabolism is different,” she murmurs, and it’s directed mostly at the medium-well burger.

Noora’s smile doesn’t falter when she strikes. It is with all the precision of an asp.

“Sure, because everyone’s is different,” Noora amends, swiping a fry through the thick scarlet of the ketchup on her plate, and then recites the information in her heart that she has kept there dearly, letting it churn and digest from thought into knowledge into wisdom. Words of thought are easy; words of wisdom are not. “But consider. What’s in this burger?”

Vilde laughs disbelievingly, finally, and when she looks up, making proper eye contact, there’s something hurtful and hollow in the glance.

“Um,” she scoffs, “I mean... the buns alone are just carbs—”

“Carbs that your body needs to survive. Nobody’s body is different in that regard. Carbs are energy, pure and simple. And what is the bun made of, anyway, Vilde? Grains. Flour. Water. Yeast. And the rest of it? Meat — that’s protein. Vegetables. Even the condiments are derived from real, natural things. Fries? Potatoes. Ketchup? Tomatoes. Same as what’s on your plate.”

An odd quiet hangs in the air — the precision of an asp and the kindness only a Noora could muster. The most fervent light only comes with the atrament of the darkest shadows in its wake.

Noora knows.

Vilde doesn’t respond to her sentiments in any sort of timely manner that would have been considered polite. Noora just keeps eating her burger. Juices gather against her lips, flavor melts on her tongue, and she will never forget how good it tastes to just _eat_. Ribs and hipbones be damned, this was a happiness in its own, she could find control in a million other things outside of this one stupid plate.

“One time,” Noora says, suddenly and very softly, and doesn’t make eye contact, like she’s giving both of them the option to act like this conversation isn’t happening, “I saw what I really looked like, and I realized I hadn’t eaten my favourite foods in so many months that I couldn’t even remember... And I realized it wasn’t worth it, giving up my own body for what everyone else wanted.”

Noora hears the clink of Vilde’s fork and the sound of her swallowing. When she chances a small, perfectly poker-faced peek up at her friend, she’s not looking at her either — just staring off idly at the upholstery of the booth seats, the lacquer of the wood, chewing thoughtfully on her salad before mixing it all up on the plate into total disorganization and taking another bite.


End file.
